"Doggy doggy…" I hear my grandmother calling out as she opens my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I rustle around, choosing not to respond, and attempt to fall back to sleep.
Moments later, I heard the front door open and my grandma's voice again: "Doggy, where are you, doggy?" I sprung out of bed and walked down the hallway to meet her at the front door.
"Grandma, what are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm looking for our dog." She responded.
If you don't know where this is going, I'll let you in on a secret: we don't have a dog.
"Grandma," I softly begin to explain, "I don't think we have our dog anymore."
"Well, that's strange. Where did it go?" She continued.
"I'm not sure, grandma. I think it's been a while, though."
We then headed back down the hallway, and she set off for her bedroom. As she returned to bed, I heard her ask again with annoyance, "Well, where'd my dog go? I want my dog."
As I fell back asleep, I felt concerned and disheartened. She has not had a dog in more than 20 years. Are these scenarios what to expect with dementia? What other memories will arise in her brain, if only to feel as real as the moment she lived them? What will her reality become in the ensuing months? Who will I be to her?
Impermanence weaves its continuous thread through the tapestry of our days, creating a delicate yet profound connection that shapes our existence. As written in Ecclesiastes, "from dust we have come and to dust we will return." Life, in all its magical and exciting facets, converges at a common destination. In the case of my 93-year-old grandma, this destination appears to be quickly approaching as she traverses the winter of her life.
Every day with her is extra, an unexpected gift not to be taken for granted. This becomes apparent with the fading of her memory and overall confusion about life, the gentle thinning of her figure, and frank remarks like, "I'm not going to be doing this living thing much longer." I generally surrender to these realizations and comments... However, I'd have to be a robot to ignore the pangs of sadness that poke at my soul, foreshadowing her grand exit.
This awareness is sobering, casting a weighty reflection upon my soul. Yet, paradoxically, it serves as a wake-up call to each present moment with her. The reality of impermanence acts as a gentle but insistent reminder, coaxing me to exercise patience and understanding during moments of frustration and irritability. I am reminded to just breathe. Be here and breathe. There is nothing more important than accepting Grandma for all she is and releasing any expectations of her being how she used to be.
In the quest for permanence—to avoid loss and separation—there's a deep yearning, a desire to freeze time, to hold ever so softly onto my grandmother and the warmth of our shared moments. This longing, at times, is quite literal as I embrace her in a hug that I hope to transform into eternity and linger there with her as we stand in the kitchen. Although we cannot escape our transient nature, it seems our love and shared memories transcend the limitations of time, the reality of impermanence.
Contemplating this ephemeral nature of life prompts introspection: How do I choose to show up for my grandmother each day? In what ways can I let go of expectations and instead flow with what is? What is worth holding onto in this life? These questions become guideposts, steering me towards a conscious and intentional presence in every extra day while embracing the impermanent beauty that defines the essence of our existence.
This chance at life truly is the most beautiful thing.
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